


Eggplant! Plus Parmesan!

by FereldenTurnip



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nicolo "Acts of Service" di Genova, Prompt Fill, Safewords, Sexual Humor, Soft Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Soft Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:40:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27530899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FereldenTurnip/pseuds/FereldenTurnip
Summary: “Eggplant!"Nicky immediately stops, his green eyes blink owlishly from beneath his baggy fringe. “Tesoro?”“Okay, don’t laugh--”“Never, hayati,” Nicky swears, serious. Joe will tell him what’s wrong in his own words and at his own pace, Nicky must be patient.---Joe can be fussy, but that doesn't stop Nicky from loving him completely.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 28
Kudos: 277
Collections: All Kinkmeme and More: a very casual prompt n fill exchange!





	Eggplant! Plus Parmesan!

**Author's Note:**

> Complete prompt is in the end notes!
> 
> I really wanted to write Soft!Joe because HE IS SOFT AND DESERVES NICE THINGS!! 
> 
> Also, kudos to my beta, [ Faith!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalFangirl/pseuds/EternalFangirl) Thank you for your help!! 
> 
> 🍆🍆🍆🍆

**1978**

“Eggplant!”

Nicky immediately stops, head bobbing off of Joe with a wet slurp. His green eyes blink owlishly from beneath his baggy fringe. He’s still clad in his leather chaps from the nightclub, laying on his stomach in between Joe’s spread legs. Joe is a feast; all naked and glistening, clearly horny and ready to go. 

Despite whatever his body is communicating, Joe’s got this morose expression on his face. Is it the fake nipple ring still hooked on his dusky nipple? Is it pinching him too roughly? 

“Tesoro?” Nicky questions, voice rough from swallowing around Joe’s length. Concerned, he gently kisses his husband’s thighs and palms his ass. 

Wincing, Joe shrugs. The cowboy hat from his costume is skewed, but still hanging in there with the help of his curls. 

“Okay, don’t laugh--”

“ _Never_ , hayati,” Nicky swears, serious. He sits up on his haunches and wipes away the excess saliva clinging to his moustache (“Pornstache!” Joe called it). Joe will tell him what’s wrong in his own words and at his own pace, Nicky must be patient. The cheap wall clock ticks approximately twelve seconds before he opens up.

“It’s these damned sheets,” Joe finally huffs. 

Nicky stares at the sheets in question. They’re the cheap hotel kind, all post-modern splashes of nauseating colours and starched to hell and back. Still, they’re _clean_ and Nicky’s confused as to why that garnered Joe’s safe word. 

Leaning against the headboard, Joe crosses his arms, “They’re hideous!” He looks adorable, all pouting bottom lip and red-hot length jutting proudly against his stomach--Nicky can’t help cracking a smile. Luckily, he clamps his lips around a snort-laugh before it can escape. 

“Hey, no laughing!” But Joe’s already grinning, too. 

Nicky pats his knees apologetically “Scusa! Scusa!” It takes a minute to kick-start his brain (all that blood needs rediverting), but then he’s suddenly hit with inspiration. He taps Joe’s butt, getting them both off the bed so he can rip the sheets off entirely. Balling them up in a crinkly wad, Nicky heads to the window of their fourth floor room and chucks the offending fabric out into the streets. Joe’s incredulous laughter mixes with the New York City ruckus--the Halloween parties will surely last until the break of dawn. 

“Nicolò!”

He kisses Joe, long and hard, hands cupping his face. Joe is a frenzy against his front, palming Nicky’s bare ass through the chaps, sticking his tongue as far down as it’ll go and chasing the taste of himself in Nicky’s mouth. 

“Better?”

“Yes,” Joe says breathlessly, eyes full of merriment and adoration. 

Nicky rights Joe’s hat and grins. “Good, now please let me get back to blowing you.” He pushes Joe back on to the bed (just plain white sheets), giggling when he bounces comically.

Joe gives him a mock salute, “Yes, daddy!” 

Of course, they later grumble a bit when they turn in for bed and realize it’s quite cold without the extra bed sheets. Nicky doesn’t regret it at all, not when Joe’s wearing that blissful little smile he loves so much. They fall asleep with Nicky’s leather jacket wrapped around their shoulders instead. 

**1787**

“Aubergine,” Joseph whispers frantically, legs clenching around Nicolas’ waist. 

Nicolas stills, trembling from the effort of holding him up against the rack. Say what you will, his love is no feather-light damsel… 

“Cosa?” He squeezes Joseph’s ass, biting his lip to keep himself from thrusting. A bead of sweat trails down his neck, soaking the hair coming loose from his tie. _Cazzo_ , this closet is terribly warm! Honestly though, does Joseph have any idea how delectable he looks in his floral hose and pretty ruffles? Sneaking off in the middle of the party for a lurid tryst wasn’t on the agenda tonight, yet Joseph had offered zero resistance. In fact, he had practically skipped and pulled them into the nearest empty room. 

Which happened to be the coat closet with every guest’s cape and cloak. Rows and rows of satin and wool, ribbons and lace, a rainbow of colours--getting crumpled in Joseph’s throes of passion. They risk exposure every time someone walks past, clacking heels barely masking their rutting.

Nicolas nuzzles Joseph’s face, luxuriating in the short bristles that burn his chin. He asks again, “Caro? Cosa c'é?” 

Joseph shivers from the hot breath in his ear and Nicolas sucks the lobe between his teeth. Arms weakly push against his shoulders. 

“The _cloak_ , Nicolas!”

The cloak? His brain must be too addled, either that or he’s thinking with his _other_ head. “Take pity on me, I implore you,” Nicolas mutters, burying his nose into Joseph’s neck. His eyelashes flutter against his pulse point, making Joseph sputter (so ticklish, his love). He wriggles until Nicolas slips free. They both groan from the loss. 

Nicolas watches him, arms akimbo and bare hips growing cool while Joseph glares at the garment, “It’s Lord Antoine’s coat! You know, the--” He’s so flustered he forgets his Parisian. He finally grates out, “ _lI est relou!_ ”

Oh yes, Nicolas remembers _Lord Antoine_. The fop who eyed Nicolas like a piece of meat and Joseph like the mangy street-mutt who stole it. On the palace steps, he had had the audacity to slip in disparaging slander against Joseph’s homeland during their passive-aggressive tête-à-tête . 

Now, Joseph looks torn between shredding the offending fabric or crying. _That simply won’t do_ , Nicolas thinks, frowning. 

“Come here, tesoro,” Nicolas whispers, determined. Crowding against his back, Nicolas plucks the cloak out of Joseph’s bitter grasp and strokes up his length. He’s softened some, but quickly twitches under Nicolas’s talented touch. 

“What are you doing?” Joseph’s breathing hitches.

“Shh,” Nicolas says, “I’m going to make you feel better, make you reach such pleasurable heights as you’ve never dreamed possible.” He rubs himself against Joseph’s bottom, still slick and open. His love whimpers, head falling back onto Nicolas’s shoulder as he’s filled once more.

“Afterwards, I’m going to use this _rag_ ,” he motions with the lord’s cloak, “to mop you clean.” 

That garners the desired reaction; Joseph grins, all teeth and crinkling eyes. “Ya amar, you devious little…” Nicolas smirks, diving in for a kiss that leaves them both quaking.

Snickering, Joseph mutters, “That French asshole will certainly lose his head when he finds out!”

**1500**

“Ah! _Ah_ \--Josef!”

“Melanzane!”

“Oh, _yes!_ Wait…M-Melan--are you serious?? JOSEF!” 

But Josef is leaping across the studio, silken robe fluttering as he flounces. In the opposite direction from the couch Nico is currently spread over like a feast. Nico pulls his face out of the velvet cushions long enough to blink wildly at the rapidly disappearing man. Already, he’s crashing down from the pleasurable heights Josef’s clever tongue is sending him to. _Was_ sending him to. 

The spit coating his most intimate place quickly cools in the Florentine breeze wafting in from the open balcony. The exquisite beard burn that had built up on the back of his thighs starts fading, courtesy of their supernatural healing (and if there’s one thing about their gift to complain to God about, it’s the lack of physical reminders from their bedroom activities).

“No, no, Nico!” Josef dashes back, carrying his drafting papers and charcoals, “Stay as you are! Yes, like that!”

Deadpan, Nico replies, “With my ass in the air?”

Josef shrugs placatingly, a precious lopsided grin splitting his handsome face. “It’s just the way the afternoon sun is hitting your shoulders, your hair aflame in golden light, the ruby-red flush on your face as I--”

“Alright! Alright!” _Cazzo, you’re so lucky I love you!_ Nico sighs, smiling nevertheless. Actually, _Nico_ is the lucky one. An eternity with Josef is Heaven’s greatest gift, even if his creative genius interrupts them mid-coitus.

This isn’t the first time either, he’s Josef’s muse after all. He grabs a pillow and stuffs it under his shoulders, getting comfortable for what will surely be a lengthy session. Josef plants himself in a chair oriented a few feet away. That eager look on his face, the one of stern concentration, tugs his brows into a cute, squinty furrow. His sharp nose wrinkles and he sticks his pink tongue out between his lips. Il maestro at work. 

Nico heaves an exaggerated wail, “Oh, how I must suffer!” His hands curl underneath his chin and he bats his eyes innocently at Josef. 

“Such is the price for art!” Charcoal happily scribbles away, a crown of brown and amber curls dancing above the edge of the paper. 

Nico gasps incredulously, “So mean! To _me!_ Your most considerate model!” He purses his lips and pretends to think about it, “Why, I ought to find a nicer artist. Maybe that di Lodovico fellow everyone speaks so highly of…” 

Josef barks, “Ha!” His good humor is palpable in their sunny apartment, “Michelangelo couldn’t capture your radiance, much less paint a tit even if it fell into his own palm!”

“I suppose you’re right,” Nico says, adding a serious nod. “I highly doubt I’ll find someone as handsome and talented as the one before me, either.” 

Another chuckle, then calm stillness descends on the studio. It’s quiet save for the scratch and flutter of paper, the calm and content breathing emanating from the couch, and the sound of birdsong outside.

“I fully intend to make it up to you, ya amar,” Josef eventually whispers, voice filled with promise. 

Nico shivers, “Carry on with your drawing, Yusuf, and worry not. We have all the time in the world, my love.” 

Besotted brown eyes catch devoted green. Nico blossoms under the undying affection.

**1212**

“Wait--stop! Er, uh…” Yusuf unexpectedly blurts out, “baadanjaan!” 

It’s just nonsensical enough to make Nicolò stop. The muscles in his bunched knees quiver in protest, hovering as he is in Yusuf’s lap. Baadanjaan…Does that mean he wants more dinner? Really though, Yusuf thinking of food at the most inopportune times is quite commonplace--even as he’s buried deep inside Nicolò. 

Why, just last week he was stuffing his mouth with bread while Nicolò stuffed his own mouth with _other_ tasty things. 

Pulling away, arms still looped over Yusuf’s bare shoulders, he stares quizzingly into his lovely brown eyes. There’s pain in those inky depths... _Oh!_

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing, really. Just,” Yusuf sighs and winces. 

“Are you hurt? Should I get more oil?” Nicolò cups his face and strokes his soft beard. As tenderly as possible, he lifts up and off Yusuf. His body releases him with a wet pop that makes Yusuf hiss under his breath. Still, he clings to Nicolò’s thighs as if to keep him nearby while Nicolò flops sideways in their bedrolls. He pats down the mix of blankets--the vial is around here somewhere… 

“Nicolò, calm yourself, please,” Yusuf says softly, squirming delicately against some phantom menace. He pets down Nicolò’s bare flanks, nails pleasantly scratching the leg hair. It feels so good that Nicky moans, low and sweet. The vial clinks and he snatches it from beneath a fold in the bedroll. He presents it triumphantly to Yusuf, accompanied with a victorious noise. 

Yusuf chuffs, “You’re sweet, habibi, but I’m not sure more oil will solve this problem.”

Nicolò pauses and sets the oil down next to Yusuf’s ankle. He strokes the strong bones, thumbs the smooth arch. “Tell me?” 

Scratching his neck, Yusuf grimaces and states: “Sand.”

Bewildered, “Sand?” Yes, they’re in a desert, there’s plenty of that to go around. 

“In uh,” a cough, “in my ass. There’s sand in my ass.”

_Oh_. Nicolò cocks his head, eyes fond (not laughing, no, anything but-- _ha!_ \--that), “Love, why didn’t you say anything before?” He cups Yusuf’s neck and brings their foreheads together. Yusuf’s breath is warm and humid against his mouth.

“You were enjoying yourself and I was loath to disrupt you,” he says, so nice and genial.

Warmth coils in Nicolò’s heart. Overwhelmed, he kisses Yusuf--on his lips, his nose, every inch of his dear face. Such an unselfish man, his Yusuf. It’s rightly fair to take care of him in kind. “Come, follow me,” Nicolò says, standing and holding his hand out. 

Nicolò leads the two of them to the small river a few yards away from their makeshift camp. There, he strips Yusuf out of his remaining linens and wads them slowly into the tranquil current. Yusuf’s smile glows in the full moon, pale blue and shimmering. His wide, revenant eyes reflect the stars back at Nicolò, and he swears he falls in love with this man all over again. 

Yusuf is soon free of sand, yet they stay submerged in their little oasis--lingering longer as Nicolò is breached once more. They wrap around each other, kissing and coming undone under millions of twinkling stars. 

**1104**

“Stop!”

Their dinner is strewn across the dirt floor, ruined in a fit of rage and, yes, _desire_. 

Yusuf spent all day over the fire cooking for just the two of them. His favourite childhood dish, something with a purple vegetable stewed in spices. An anniversary gift and peace offering after five whole years of living as (moderately) willing companions. 

All it took was one dumb comment to break the uneasy truce, to send them toppling over the table. At each other's throats once more. 

Nicolò has the upperhand, looming over Yusuf with a knife pointed at his jugular. Yusuf, struggling and straining against him, grits his teeth. This close, Nicolò can count the little freckles dotting his cheekbones, can almost taste his spicy and aromatic breath.

Pressed between their bodies is the evidence of their mutual desire. Bloodlust and lusting blood. A heady combination that pools in their hips, makes them rut like filthy animals wherever their antagonism strikes its fancy. In rivers, bathhouses, caves, and caravans. They collide like Greek fire, springing together then cracking apart, destroying everything in the flames.

Nicolò has never felt more alive than when his body boils over for Yusuf. He’ll sink his claws into Yusuf’s hair, snarl and pull until he’s brutally thrown onto some surface to be devoured by greedy teeth and tongue. Receiving just as harshly as he gives. 

Tonight is different. 

Tonight Yusuf hisses, eyes morose and pleading, “I said no more, Nicolò… _Please!_ ” 

And just like that, everything changes. 

The fight dies inside Nicolò. Yusuf pants, relaxing minutely as the knife drops. Sitting on Yusuf’s torso, Nicolò gulps. From the corner of his eye he sees remnants of their dinner, cold and ruined. Shame burns inside his veins, hotter than the all-consuming desire of just minutes ago. 

He lays down beside Yusuf, forehead to forehead. 

“I’m sorry, Yusuf,” Nicolò whispers, a ghostly sound in the sanctum between their mouths. He says it again, “I’m sorry,” and this time it means ‘ _fo_ _r everything_.’ 

Yusuf swallows, closing his eyes. Nicolò watches a tear roll down his cheeks and he _hurts_. Watching Yusuf cry so unexpectedly _devastates_ him. Nicolò would gladly suffer dozens of agonizing deaths, if only to spare Yusuf his current pain.

Slowly, he scuttles forward, wide-eyed and careful. Fingers tentatively comb Yusuf’s beard, growing braver when his advances aren’t rejected. Cupping his face, Nicolò kisses him. 

Instead of raw biting anger, it’s gentle, lingering, and sweet. A balm over his plump pink lips. 

Lips that ease and open, a tongue that innocently brushes against Nicolò. 

They’ve never done it like this before. It’s frightening, like jumping from a balcony with no landing in sight. _A leap of faith_. Nicolò’s heart pounds loudly in his chest. He can feel Yusuf’s own worries, his own hopes as they kiss, rocking and swaying together.

Their pleasure climbs, delicate and divine. Afterwards, their limbs twist like branches in a growing tree, curling and intertwining until both can’t tell where one begins and the other ends. As they were always meant to be.

**2020 (+1)**

“Parmesan! Ah! _Parmesan!_ ”

The echo of the harsh slap fades. Joe rubs his hand against the welt already disappearing off Nicky’s ass, “Shit, baby, I’m sorry!” 

Nicky pants, head bowed low and far too stock-still. 

Joe squeezes his hip, “Was that too hard?”

A beat. Nicky shakes his head. His shoulder blades twitch, pulled taut as they are by the restraints around his wrists. Joe drapes himself across Nicky’s back, cooing in his reddened ear and soothing the straining muscle. He kisses him, light pecks, all across his moles and freckles. 

“Baby, tell me what’s wrong, please,” Joe asks, forlorn. 

A jarring rattle rings throughout their bedroom as Nicky tugs his bindings, “Off!” he commands into the sheets. Joe hastens to obey, worried about the wobble in his husband’s voice. The metal and leather cuffs fall away and clatter onto the wood floor. Not a second later, Joe’s got his hands full. Nicky burrows sideways into his chest, shaking like he’s afraid Joe will disappear at any moment. 

“Nicky…” Joe frowns, gathering him into a tight embrace. He feels just as distraught as Nicky looks. Brushing his hair back from his damp forehead, Joe tilts Nicky’s face up to meet his gaze. Those green eyes are wet and needy. 

Nicky sniffles, “I-I just really wanted to see you!”

He feels Nicky’s arms snake around his waist, trembling as they skitter up his back to press between his shoulder blades. “Every time I closed my eyes,” Nicky whispers and Joe strains to hear him through the hiccups, “it was like I was back _there_ , strapped to that table, watching them take you apart!” 

“Oh, hayati,” Joe kisses him, pouring all his love into it just to prove they’re here, in the present. He cradles Nicky’s head in his hands and wipes his wet eyelashes--makes it his mission to chase away the melancholic memories and fill him with radiant light.

“I’m gonna go clean up,” Nicky mutters, wiping his face. 

“You want me to come with you?” Nicky shakes his head again. Joe’s hand trails along his arm as he slips away, shivering, into the ensuite bathroom. The faucet runs, followed by tell-tale splashing. 

He eyes the myriad of toys and gadgets surrounding him on the bed--all of Nicky’s favourites. Any crazy plans involving them tonight are easily forgotten, so Joe doesn’t hesitate to shuffle them back into their box and under the bed. 

When Nicky returns, it’s to a clean and cozy room. Nicky smiles and Joe must admit he looks a lot better. Still red around the eyes and rosy faced, but the quick rinse did wonders for lightening his mood. Leaning against the headboard, Joe pats the space next to him. He tugs Nicky into his side and fluffs up his pillows to make a luscious nest. Once he’s sufficiently smothered with the duvet, Joe settles and turns the television on. 

“You know, Nile finally got Netflix to work--well,” Joe laughs at himself, “more like taught me how to use it properly.” Nicky snuggles into him and grins (Joe’s heart sings at the sight).

“Want to watch something funny? Romantic?”

Nicky bites his lip, “Something with a happy ending, I think.” 

Joe kisses him. _For you? Anything and everything_.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Prompt [: When they're being sexually adventurous and trying something new, or being rough, or roleplaying a scene, Nicky will pretty much only use his safe word if something is absolutely unbearable. He won't safe word out of something if it's merely unpleasant or he's lost interest in it, because he likes pushing himself to see it through to the end and he like pleasing Joe most of all. But Joe will safe word at the drop of a hat. He'll use his safe word if something is slightly not to his taste, if something isn't as good as he imagined, if he's slightly bored, if the room temperature isn't just exactly right, if he doesn't like the way the bedspread feels. He's a fussy baby. They're both valid and they both respect each other's style. Thank you for reading!](https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2998.html?thread=753078#cmt753078)


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